DISCLAIMER: I do not dare claim any ownership for the fabulous characters, situations, plots and/or spins on old stories that ABC's geniuses have given us on Once Upon a Time.
This is a what-if story: The way I figure, something DID jog his memory that night in the pawn shop…but it wasn't the windmill…Boy is that summary OLD!...but oddly enough, it still fits because Aaaaaaaaaall of this, is what I believe WOULD have happened if James hadn't seen that damn windmill!
In the shadow of the toll bridge
***Ok, I know it's been almost a year and I'm SOOOOOO sorry for the delay – I'll compose a longer AN at the end of this but I figured you might be in need of a quick recap since it's been so long away:
Snow, Jasmine, Ella and the dwarfs just saved Ariel from Ursula, Flotsom and Jetsam. Emma sent them to protect the sixth guardian who, at the moment, is most at risk. Emma, Philip, Aladdin and Lucas (who still thinks he's Trent) have headed to the hospital to find Maeve/Maleficent to see if she has any idea how the soulodestone can make a portal through which Emma will pull Eric from prison (as she saw in her vision). Meanwhile, Emma sent Red, Michael Tillman, Jiminy and Geppetto to follow Akela (Graham's wolf) to find Henry, Ava, Nicholas and The Lost Boys. Emma has given Red something very significant which Red stores under her red cloak. (Any guesses what she might be concealing?) This chapter begins with a bit of an amalgam of my original view of Hook fused with what I liked of the show's Hook. I originally was intending this to be a much longer chapter, but I've decided to split it in two. This is the first half of the drama that will lead to Henry and the Lost Boys' confrontation with Hook, breaking Eric out of prison, reuniting several characters together and…yes…I promise I've not forgotten about Adam.
…
March of the Wooden Soldier
Hook. To forever be known in the realm of infamy by an appendage made necessary by the evils of others; to be cast as villain in a story that, if related truthfully, clearly demonstrated otherwise – oh, if only Killian Jones still cared. Yes, he'd once been a noble sailor, a lieutenant pledged to his brother's side and charged with the trust and care of a vast and honorable crew, but that…was centuries ago. At this point, quite honestly, old Jones quite liked being Captain J.S. Hook, having dispensed with the name "Killian" altogether and adopted for his second moniker that of a defeated enemy. It was far more fun being "the bad guy" and a practically immortal one at that. Why no other mariner in history could lay claim to having once matched wits with Poseidon himself, done battle with Odysseus, and crossed blades with Jack Sparrow. And then of course, there was his latest triumph – Peter Pan, the boy who, eventually did grow up. Yes, Captain Hook had had a rather illustrious career on the Eleven Seas and had much to show for his adventures – a whole treasure trove of artifacts, in fact, that he was sure more than rivaled that bloated imp's little shop of antiques in town. So why, in the names of all Gods and Demons everywhere had he allowed himself to be reduced to the role of headmaster, nay, babysitter, of the very brats he once-upon-a-time had not the slightest hesitation to kill?
Looking back, he supposed the rewards of Regina's original invitation to take charge of Neverland's part of the curse had sounded promising. After developing quite a profound reputation as one of the deadliest rogues of the seas, with everyone from Commodore Norrington to King Triton after him at one point or another, the offer to disappear into a life of wealth, power, and fame where none of his current and archest of enemies would ever recognize him was a no-brainer. If only that wretch of a woman had anticipated the problem with children and fairy dust. If only Regina had the stomach to kill children – Hook would never understand the axiom of a child's "innocence." Children could be just as violent, just as arrogant, just as wretched – nay, even more so in his experience – than adults, and killing them young prevented them from developing into bigger nuisances later. Still, it was Regina's curse, Regina's rules, and Hook wasn't about to risk the power-enchantment she'd granted his namesake appendage. After all, a pirate on his own could cause a lot of damage. A pirate with a magic-infused hook? Well, his prize trophy in the basement was living proof of all he might one day achieve. Besides, curses were made to be broken. Eventually this one would too, but it was Jones's understanding that the enchantment on his hook would remain, and he quite looked forward to once more captaining the Jolly Roger newly equipped with dark magic. In the meantime, he supposed watching the boys slowly lose faith as their beloved Pan aged into manhood was a far more satisfying punishment for those little mongrels than a quick death would have been anyway. It was perhaps for this reason that the past few days so agitated the pirate because the arrival of three more bratty kids, one of whom was Regina's own precocious son, had disturbed that carefully honed sense of gloom and doom he'd so refined around here these past few decades.
Consequently, Hook decided to take extra precautions following Henry's arrival and Regina's subsequent warning. In truth, he didn't much care whether or not the queen maintained her precious status quo, but he would not allow his own, personal role in Storybrooke's demise to fail for fear of the queen reneging on her magical gift. And with Honest John coming and going, hot on Regina's heels as her favorite errand boy, it even more so fell to Hook to keep order at the home than to his nominal co-worker.
So by around lunchtime the day after Regina's surprise nighttime visit, Hook was on high alert, allowing the boys to eat in shifts of no more than five at a time, keeping a close watch on Henry of course, but on each and every other boy there as well. He would leave nothing to chance; he preferred it that way. In battle, no one handled or planned for the element of surprise better than Captain Hook…which is precisely why the old codger was surprised to discover, when making his rounds, what appeared to be a crumpled up, dusty, ancient-looking toy tossed in the corner of a seldom-used, third floor hallway.
As he hobbled up the stairs, certain that all cell doors were secured and every boy was back in his room, Hook could fathom no explanation for how the plaything had gotten there. The only boy up here was Tootles, still recovering from his failed escape attempt last week. And having personally escorted each boy to his room after lunch, Hook knew there was no way any of them had gotten by him or wandered up here. It was only when Hook got closer and realized exactly what, or more accurately, whom it was laying there, that the pirate really got spooked. As he reached the end of the cob-webbed hallway, his lantern gave light to the shadows and revealed an all-too familiar face: it was Pinocchio, the once real-boy turned puppet again.
How in the world had Pinocchio gotten up here? How when he'd stopped living, even in puppet form, over ten years ago? Could Hook have really just missed him all this time? Is this where the last of the fairy dust had finally spluttered out of the puppet, leaving him lifeless? (Hook never did report Geppetto's missing red-headed whelp to Regina back in the day; they all knew one day Pinocchio's fairy dust would simply run out.) Hook always figured the wooden kid had slipped through a loose floorboard somewhere and gotten eaten by termites – good riddance. But no, here he was, as lifeless as a puppet should be, but otherwise undamaged.
Carefully, as if afraid it was booby trapped, Hook bent down and lifted the puppet by its arm. The wooden legs clinked and clunked together like the sticks they were, and the painted eyes were lifeless as a doll's. Pinocchio was certainly inert, though Hook spent a good five minutes or so screaming at it just to make sure. When he was convinced the creepy thing was no threat, the captain carried it back down the hallway into his study anyway…just in case. For he was, after all, Captain Hook – the seaman who left nothing to chance…a fact that Henry and all his new friends were counting on.
…
"You think he's ok?" Hansel squirmed on top of the bed as Henry pulled himself back inside his dormitory and quietly clicked the door closed.
"He'll be fine," Henry whispered, hoping he sounded reassuring. After all, Hook had shaken Pinocchio up rather roughly.
"He's a puppet, ya dope. Can't feel pain—" Ace jabbed Hansel's side with his elbow before Nibs, in turn, smacked Ace's arm.
"Shut it," Nibs hissed.
"You sure you're ok, Henry?" Rufio asked as Henry returned to their little huddle on Henry's floor. Thanks to some clever scurrying by Mick and his friends, sneaking in, out and between their "locked" cells right under Hook's nose had been rather easy. More and more boys were showing up in his room, two-by-two. Hook would escort a set of five up from lunch, take five more down, and Mick's critter buddies immediately set to work picking locks and checking corridors, allowing safe passage to Henry's room for the boys Hook thought he'd already accounted for. There were close to fifteen Lost Boys already, plus Hansel and Gretel, split between his and Dukey's room next door. Hook had only just escorted the last group back from lunch before finding Pinocchio in the hallway.
Henry had to admit he'd been hesitant about placing the wooden boy in such danger, but he could think of no other way inside Hook's office. The door wasn't only locked, it was bolted and chained. And Mick's friends could only do so much with their tails. In fact, the whole plan banked a lot on chance. Hook, for instance, might have just thrown the puppet in the trash, but it was Rufio who had insisted the fastidious old codger wouldn't have been so careless. "He'll definitely head straight for the office. And as long as Pinocchio can find what we need in a hurry, he should be ok. Course it won't be much longer than that before ol' Hookie decides Pinoke ain't a threat and uses 'is legs for firewood," the tactless rebel had pointed out. Henry had studiously ignored the flip-flopping in his stomach as he'd turned from Rufio's blunt recommendation to the puppet in question. To his surprise, Pinocchio hadn't seemed the least bit frightened.
"I'll do it, Henry," the once real boy had nodded in confidence. "Anything to get back to my father."
After that, Henry was not only confident in his plan, but was absolutely certain it would work. According to Mick, the message had already been delivered to Graham's wolf. Emma would be on her way soon. As long as Pinocchio accomplished his mission, Operation Wooden Soldier was a go.
"How long d'you think it'll take?" asked Gretel, who was busily pacing near the foot of Henry's bed.
"Mick gave Pinoke a pretty good description of what it looks like," Hansel answered before Henry could. "And the office isn't…that big," he added uncertainly, looking up at Nibs. "Right?"
Nibs chuckled. "Why ask me? The principal's office back in Storybrooke, I know like the back 'o my hand. But Hook's study? No one goes in there."
"But Mick described that pretty well too," Henry replied, shifting himself on the floor so that he could lean his back against the door and fold his knees up to his chest. "We just…gotta be patient."
Rufio exchanged a worried look with Gretel, then crouched down beside the savior's son. "You're not uh…gettin' cold feet now are ya Hank?"
Henry snapped his head up. "No way!" he said, confidently. "I just…I'm not," he paused and sighed, thinking of his window view of a clock that never budged. "I'm not good at waiting."
…
As it turned out, Henry wouldn't have to wait very long. Pinocchio, though made of wood, still felt slightly sore at the rather violent shaking he'd endured at the hands of Hook, but the pain was worth it as the old man resumed his patrol of the corridors, leaving the not-quite-real-boy on his own in the opulent office. It looked just as the little mouse had described through Henry: like the quarters of a ship's captain. A beautiful mahogany desk, crafted with nearly the same care and precision of Father's legendary hands, stood immediately to the right of the huge double doors he'd been tossed through. Having landed upside down, Pinocchio, pushed himself up to a sitting position on the velvet-covered settee that faced the opposite wall. Sunken into the room, down three steps from the small balcony that surrounded the lower level, was a mammoth-sized brass bed, richly adorned in threads of red and gold, while a miniature model of the Jolly Roger, encased inside a bottle atop a cedar bureau completed the chamber. "Lookie lookie, we got Hookie," Pinocchio muttered as he clunked along the wood floors as quietly as he could, murmuring the phrase Ace made him promise to say once inside the infamous study.
Quickly, he descended the stairs, hopped on the bed and scooted across the quilted covering until he slid down on the other side, plopping softly on the fashionable rug that lay directly in front of the bureau. This was it. Exactly as Mick described it. He held his breath as he reached his shaking, stick-like fingers toward the door to the chest, praying that the mouse's critter friends had completed their mission. If what lay inside was indeed right where it was supposed to be, then every other piece would fall into place. If it was missing, well…they were all doomed. Either way, if Mick and his buddies had failed to pick this lock, they'd have to call it off without even trying. Pinocchio closed his hand around the black knob, closed his eyes, and tugged.
The door sprang free without a hitch and hanging on the inside, again, just as Mick had described, were several dozen skeleton keys, clattering and clinking together from the force of having been yanked open. "Shhh!" Pinocchio hissed at the keys without thinking. He shook his head and then scanned the bureau door. The keys were many and of varying shapes and sizes, though some of the hooks on which the key rings were hung were empty – these belonging to some of the smaller keys the critters had already swiped to help the boys out of the their rooms. But there was one key too heavy, one key that would be immediately missed if it had disappeared from Hook's cabinet too early, and Pinocchio knew exactly which one. As Arthur might have handled Excalibur, Pinocchio seized the large silver key hanging in the middle, its key ring sporting a green ribbon and red feather that the wooden boy supposed was some kind of twisted symbol of whom it kept locked.
Shuddering at the thought, Pinocchio lifted it gingerly from its hook, astonished by the weight of it as it plopped heavily into his inhuman hands, then held it to his painted chest. The key to Peter's cell, the only key laced with magic from Hook's hook that could free Peter Pan. It was theirs! They would win! Mission accomplished. Scrambling back over the bed and up the small staircase, Pinocchio skipped toward the door, his timber heart a little lighter, feeling that much closer to freedom, that much closer to Father. In fact, his little wooden shoes clicked together so happily, that Pinocchio didn't hear the footsteps approaching the other side of the office door until he was about to yank it open. Only then did the elation in his heart turn to alarm as the knob twisted before him and the door started to budge. Pinocchio froze, looking helplessly at the velvet settee which was too far away for him to reasonably leap back to without the old man noticing. Whado I do, Jiminy? he thought out of habit, though he knew the cricket was a long way off from being able to guide him here. Finally, he did the only thing he could think of. As Captain Hook reentered his study, Pinocchio tucked the giant key against his breast, folded himself over into a heap and crumpled to the floor.
Hook did not immediately notice the movement of his intruder. He entered slowly, almost wearily after a long afternoon of trekking back and forth corridors and up and down stairs. In fact, Hook might not have noticed the change from the puppet's original position on the settee at all had the boy crumpled himself ever so slightly to the left. As it was, though, Pinocchio had left one arm in the path of Hook's foot, and with a grumble, the Captain stumbled into it as he closed the door behind him.
"What the—" he muttered, glancing down. Then he gasped, jerking back, and peered hard the marionette. He glanced from the settee to the floor, mentally judging perhaps the likelihood that the puppet had just slid from the spot where he'd thrown the damn thing. Pinocchio remained still, praying for some miracle, some 11th hour cavalry that might come bursting through the door at any moment. But he knew no such rescue was possible. The boys were all back in Henry's room. Waiting on him. Waiting for his signal.
Steeling himself against the gamble he was about the take, the wooden boy reverted to his stoic, plasticized face as Hook bent cautiously before him, picked him up by the hinge of the puppet's wrist and started to raise him off the ground. Pinocchio, now in full panic mode as he felt himself unfold from the floor, was still clutching the heavy key in his other hand, a move for which Ace would've undoubtedly called him "numbskull!" but Hook didn't notice the key right away. The way the captain was holding him, Pinocchio was able to let his other hand hang down behind most of his lanky body, concealing at least part of the key from view as Hook raised him right up to eye-level. Pinocchio now stared straight at the old man's rather pronounced schnozzle, and held his breath. This was a disaster. No way was Hook going to fall for this twice. He was already suspicious enough at having randomly found Pinocchio in the first place. He couldn't possibly—
"What've we here?" Hook muttered to himself as he slowly brought his metal appendage up to Pinocchio's cheek, holding the sharp point of it up close as if he were preparing to carve into his wooden face. The thought should have terrified the poor boy but a stroke of genius suddenly surged through him. Who needed a magical key that'd been charmed by the magical hook…if you already had the magical hook?
With a confidence he couldn't possibly explain in the years to come, Pinocchio let the silver key drop from his grasp and clatter loudly to the floor. Hook started, looking down in shock at the familiar green cloth and feather. When he returned his gaze back to Pinocchio, the old captain actually screamed, for staring back at him was not the same lifeless expression of the wooden puppet. The toy stared right at him, his head turned a full 180 degrees on its axis from where it was, and said, "Made ya look!"
Hook threw the puppet from his grasp, but not before Pinocchio swung himself forward and gripped onto the metal hook for dear life. Thrown by sheer surprise, Hook started shaking his hand, trying to throw Pinocchio off of him like an unwanted fish at the end of line, but the boy would not let go. His life depended on it. All their lives depended on it. And if they couldn't have the key…well, then they needed the hook.
Pinocchio yanked and twisted and pulled with all his might, praying he would hold out before Hook remembered the damn thing was like a wand now. Sure enough, with one final tug, he twisted the hook off the stump of the captain's stubbed arm and fell to the floor with a thud.
"Why you—" Hook bellowed with anger, but the puppet was too small and ducked between Hook's legs as he lunged forward.
Hook, reaching too far under his own legs, lost his balance and went sprawling into the wall next to the settee, giving the puppet just enough time to wrench back open the double doors, spill into the hallway and scream at the top of his wooden lungs: "BANGARANG!"
…
"So…what exactly will this do?" asked Michael Tillman, slightly impatient. After what felt like hours of painfully walking on his bad leg, Michael and his unlikely companions had finally arrived at this rather fictional-looking well standing randomly on the outskirts of Storybrooke's forest. Indeed it looked like something out of a fairy tale, and though he'd spent the last week or so locked in the basement of an abandoned library by a Victorian-dressed bloke who called himself 'Honest John', magic wishing wells still felt vaguely out of his grasp of normalcy.
Red grunted as she and Jiminy gave the rope one final heave and hoisted up its bucket. "This," she panted, taking the bucket off its hook and perching it on the well's ledge, "will return 'what is lost'."
Michael glanced nervously from the dark-haired woman over to Doc Hopper and Marco. "Yeah, that's what Emma said. But what does that mean? We," he gestured to Marco, "have lost our kids. So does this…I dunno, could this make 'em magically appear?"
Red dipped the attached utensil into the freezing bucket and withdrew a ladle-full of enchanted water. "Sorry Kurtis," she smirked. "Doesn't work that way." Without hesitation, she gulped down the water, used the edge of her cloak to wipe its lip then returned it to the bucket for another scoop. "Wehave lost all the children. All the Lost Boys. Drinking this," she heaved out another cup-full and passed it to Geppetto, "let's us go beyond the borders of the city without losing our memories in the process."
Marco too drank without reservation, surprised as the liquid trickled down his throat, no longer cold and tasting no different than Granny's sparkling spring water. "A good precaution Red, I'll admit, but Henry and I were able to journey to the Mad Hatter's house without losing ourselves as you say," Marco replied as he passed the ladle to Archie.
"Yes but Snow is pretty sure that's because Jefferson was extending the magic he'd carried over from Wonderland. We don't have that luxury this time."
"For now, apparently," Michael grumbled as he watched Doc Hopper take his own swig.
Red shot him a look, "Still having doubts, Kurtis?"
Michael flinched a second time at the foreign name, more than a little on edge at how familiar the young woman was being when the only impression Tillman had ever had of the girl was one of near famous promiscuity. Ironically it was this very memory that rendered the whole thing that much more believable. This woman was certainly not the wanton Ruby of Granny's Bed and Breakfast, but a level-headed warrior prepared to do whatever it took to save his kids.
"Not doubts," he finally replied as he eyed his own ladle of well water with slight trepidation. "Just…nerves." He glanced down, not for the first time that day, at the bulge beneath the lower folds of Red's cloak. "Are you sure that…thing will work?"
At that moment the four of them spun towards the sounds of rustling trees just beyond the well to where Graham's wolf had just re-emerged. The magnificent beast had scampered ahead, assuring that the path was safe and clear for them to venture forth. Akela glared at them impatiently, the one red eye seeming to bore right into Michael's soul. The trucker sheepishly dropped his gaze and swallowed the well water in one gulp.
Red also nodded to the wolf and tightened her cloak more securely about her neck. "Well?" she said briskly. "There's only one way to find out."
…
"You stole the hook?! The bloody hook? You weren't supposed to steal the hook, ya heap of firewood, you—"
"Really don't have time to argue right now, Ace!" Henry shouted as Ace passed the hook back from Pinocchio through the ranks to where Henry was, in the middle of a throng of boys. The group sped down the corridor, barely missing another bullet zooming from behind them. Hastily, Henry tucked the stolen item in the breast pocket of a jacket Mick had found for him and prayed it would be enough. Pinocchio's 'bangarang' signal had been part of the plan. Running from an angry pirate whose missing hook had not deterred him from using his good hand to fire a pistol…was not.
"Hank's right," Rufio shouted. "No turning back now. We need to finish this. You ready?" he called out as the group neared the end of their hallway which veered off to the left and right and down the stairs – 3 different directions, only one of which Hook could follow.
"Ready!" said Gretel, Hansel and Henry all at once. The Lost Boys, however, had a different response planned, and as they split into three even groups, some of them crowding around Henry, others clustering near Pinocchio and a third group centered on Ace, Henry distinctly heard each of them crow.
"Now!" Rufio added to the thunderous cacophony of caws reviving an age-old battle cry of Pan's that served mostly to further anger and distract Hook. Rufio then hoisted Pinocchio up onto his shoulders and veered to the right with a half dozen other boys. Pinocchio, now in plain view above the rest and having been Hook's most recent agitator, was the captain's immediate target, and in a blind fury, the old clock-fearing codger took off down the corridor after the damned puppet and still crowing boys while Nibs, Gretel, Dukey, Pockets and Hansel slunk surreptitiously down the stairs with Henry, heading straight for the lowest dungeon with Hook's hook in hand.
"Well that was too easy," muttered Nibs, throwing one last glance up the rounded stairwell to the tail end of the resuming chase before hefting open the basement door and starting their descent to the dungeon.
"Let's not celebrate just yet," Gretel muttered behind him, her hands firmly on Henry's shoulders as she once again guided the Son of the Savior down to Peter's cell. The group made its way quickly through the dark, dank corridor, and Henry watched as a series of half-opened rooms came into view then zoomed by on either side, rooms he hadn't noticed when Gretel and Rufio first showed him the place. In one room in particular Henry caught sight of some sort of metal slab, resting at a slight angle, reminding Henry of those old black and white mad-scientist movies he used to catch on TV when Regina was out late. He shuddered to think of what it had been used for, gasping at the thought that Regina might have done other things here than just holding boys prisoner – terrible things. Experiments? Torture? Mind-erasing? And then of course, there was whatever kind of magic it had taken to allow Peter's aging process to progress while keeping the rest of the boys' ages frozen in the first place. Once more shuddering at the thought, Henry pushed it from his mind as they arrived at the shoddy, half-off-its hinge hatch at the end of the long hallway.
Without ceremony, Nibs yanked open door, revealing the shadowy room in which Peter stood shackled to the wall just beyond a set of iron bars. Nibs peered inside, hardly able to stomach the sight of their old ring leader, chained and defeated, head down, dirt-dusted hair covering his face. "Pssssst!" he hissed through the metal poles blocking their way. "Pan!"
Henry gulped, as the broad-shouldered, no-longer-a-boy Peter lifted his head to reveal those same lifeless, hopeless gray eyes he'd seen before. And though he was a might more prepared this time, Henry couldn't help but be saddened at the sight of such an iconic figure, beaten at his own game. Forget about 'happy thoughts', this guy – this man – was completely broken, a shell of what he'd always imagined Peter Pan to be. And that certainly wouldn't make their escape any easier. "H-hey P-peter," he croaked, then gulped again. "I-I'm Henry—"
"No time for introductions kid," Nibs hissed, nudging him in the ribcage, though himself still staring dry-mouthed at their beloved Pan. "Get on with it!"
"Right," Henry nodded, pulling the hook from beneath his jacket, closing his fingers around the cold steel of the stolen appendage. Hands shaking, though grasping firmly, he reached the hook out toward the keyhole of the prison bars blocking the doorway. Gretel and the boys held their breaths as Henry inserted the tip of the hook inside the keyhole…and only then did it occur to Henry that he had no idea what to do next.
Nibs glanced frantically between Henry, the hook, the keyhole, Peter, then back to Henry again and huffed. "Well? Whadya waitin' for?"
"Give 'im time, Nibs," Gretel said, though Henry noticed even her voice was shaky.
"We don't have time, Wendy Lady," chimed in Pockets who pushed Hansel out of the way for a closer, though not at all helpful, view of the hook.
"I-I'm sorry," Henry stammered, hot embarrassment prickling at his neck. Man he wished Mick were here, or even better…Pops. "Pinocchio was supposed to get the key remember? I don't…I'm not sure—"
"Henry," Gretel spun him toward her and grasped his shoulders. "The key was magic, remember? Enchanted by this hook. It's got to be able to open the cell if it's the thing that created the spell to begin with."
"Yeah but Hook's the one laid the spell," Henry countered, looking frantically between the bars and the captive – Peter who was now eyeing him with a bit more clarity. "Doesn't that mean Hook has to—"
"Oh, chutes-n-ladders, Henry!" cried Dukey, "are you saying we came all the way down here for nuthin'!?"
"No! Not nothing," he countered, "just…just," he grasped for straws, looking panic-stricken between Nibs and Gretel. "He was supposed to get the key! I don't know how—"
"Happy thoughts," came a whisper, almost from the ether. Henry spun around, jerking at the quiet yet deafening interruption of their squabble.
"What?" he called aloud.
"Happy thoughts," came the voice again, and this time its origin was clear. Gretel and the boys stared in awe through the bars at Peter Pan who, instead of slumped in his chains, now stood straight and strong against the wall, hands clenched into fists, eyeing Henry with unsettling intensity. Henry also noticed, for the first time, the slightest hint of elf-like ears peeking from beneath his disheveled brown hair.
"Henry, is it?" Pan asked the boy, clearing his throat as if doing so might rid him of its low, adult timbre.
Henry nodded (as did Dukey and Pockets, stupidly). "Y-yes sir," he said, then instantly regretted it.
Peter grimaced at being called 'sir' but let it go. The boy was holding Hook's hook. Nibs was with him. It was enough. "Think. Happy. Thoughts."
Gretel looked slowly back from the legendary Pan to Henry. "He's right, Henry," she said quietly, placing her hand on his shoulder once more. "Happy thoughts. I-it's how magic," she glanced at Peter who was nodding, "it's how magic works."
"It's how fairy dust works—" said Henry. "Fairy dust inside all of you," he glanced frantically at the Lost Boys. "Fairy dust we gotta save for the last part of the—"
"No. All of it," she cut him off, pressing on with more certainty. "Like it or not, this," she gestured through the iron cage to the shackled Peter, "makes Hook happy. All you have to do…is will him free."
"You said so yourself, Henry," Pockets added with a toothy grin, swatting him playfully on the arm. "You are magic. You asked us to believe in your magic. Now you gotta believe in yourself."
Henry shook his head, looking down at the hook then back up at Peter. "Happy thoughts," Henry whispered. And again, Peter nodded. Henry closed his eyes. Happy thoughts…happy thoughts…Peter being FREE! His eyes snapped open. No change. Stupid, he told himself. Come on, Henry. The boy had read enough comic books in his life to know that the trigger had to be something deeper than that. Ok, ok, ok…happy thoughts…just another word for willpower right? Ok happy thoughts, happy thoughts…Henry squeezed his eyes shut again.
POPS!– "Snow called me right away after she spoke with your therapist. You were brilliant, Henry. Couldn't have done it without you"…
GRANDMA! – "You have the gift, Henry…You've always had it. You listen to them…and then eventually, they just start telling you things"…
EMMA! – "Henry, I'm sorry"…"For what?"..."For not believing in you"…"It's ok, Emma"…"No, it's not. I—"… "Mom – It's really ok."…Mom... His mother. Emma, the savior of Storybrooke...
All at once Henry felt something pulsing through his fingers and it caused him to grasp even more tightly to the hook. His eyes popped open and he stared at the curved steel, glistening in his hand like he always imagined a glowing wand might look. Gretel and the boys stared too, slinking away from him as the hook started to shake and sputter, but Henry held tight. He could feel it, the power of his happy thoughts, the strength he drew from his family – his real family. He glanced back inside the cell and locked eyes with Peter. And Peter…was grinning.
Feeling almost giddy, Henry took a step back toward the cell door and sunk the now glowing hook back into the keyhole. Now positively sure of what would happen, he twisted the hook to the right, and just as the lock gave way –unable to help himself – Henry grinned back and shouted, "Bangarang!"
…
If only Eric hadn't heard that blasted voice. If only he could rid his mind of that infernally gorgeous song. If only he weren't haunted nightly by the hypnotic melody of his mystery rescuer…then perhaps the newly crowned Prince of Lochmere might be free to follow his heart and pursue the equally bewitching young maiden now living in his castle.
What a tumultuous couple of months it had been: uprooted from his far quieter province of Kincanaan and thrust into the role of Lochmere's interim ruler despite having only been a mere marquis under King Hubert's reign; charged with repairing and restoring a land and a people brutally battered by the frigid rule of the Snow Queen; and…oh yes – nearly drowned at sea following a dreadful storm upon the waters of Atlantica. In fact, had he not been rescued by what Grimsby now called the 'dream girl' Eric might have considered riding all the way back to Braemar and insisting that Hubert appoint Andrew of Rumbasa in his place and allow him to return to his tenants in Kincanaan. His life there might have been far more mundane but at least he wouldn't be so damned confused. That woman. That shadow of an angel who plucked him from the dark, Atlantian abyss and breathed life back into his soul. Her voice…her song. Just thinking of its haunting tune moved him to tears. He couldn't place the tune. Hell, he couldn't even re-create it on the ocarina his mother had gifted to him when he was a child. But he knew it. And for some inexplicable reason, he knew he could not rest; he could never be complete without her.
For ten straight days, he and his new guard had searched the shores of Lochmere, scoured the land of his new kingdom in the hopes of discovering the woman who had saved his life. Only when Grimsby reminded him that a practically infantile regiment of knights should be spending more time rebuilding their kingdom than galloping across the countryside searching for a fictitious singing maiden did the prince put an end to the official search and withdraw to his small, seaside palace.
Embarrassed and ashamed, Eric finally refocused his efforts on his new duties as interim monarch. It was his chief responsibility to monitor the trading and communications routed through Lochmere between Braemar and Agrabah. He was also charged with helping land owners settle their deeds, reestablish their lands and replant their crops in the now thawed and fertile soil- a feat he was far more used to, having similarly counseled many of his former tenants in Kincanaan. In a few more weeks, he'd more than compensated for his initial lapse in judgment, and the people of Lochmere's war-worn shores started to trust and accept him…but through it all, the voice – her voice stayed with him. Her song was as vivid to him a month and a half after the fact as it had been on the eve of that fateful storm…and just as he was beginning to wonder whether the emptiness in his soul would ever again be filled with her song…Eric had met Ariel.
Actually, Max found her, one afternoon when they were running along the shores. His trusted mutt had a nose for sniffing out trouble, so when he'd yipped and barked himself into a frenzy and tore down the shoreline, Eric had simply assumed the dog had caught the scent of a stray seagull – Max's favorite playtime prey. Arriving at an abandoned wharf, however, windswept and panting from the brisk jog, Eric came instead upon a girl – Ariel. She was beautiful, though exhausted, with long cascading red curls covering what had to be the sorriest looking smock he'd ever seen. Max was all over her – jumping up and down, licking her face. But her eyes – her twinkling, cerulean eyes met and locked with his, and Eric remembered thinking: this is it. This isher! When she opened her mouth to speak, his breath hitched in his throat. She'll tell me her name, he'd thought. I'll hear her voice…I'll hear the voice! The song! But the girl could not speak. She had no voice. And Eric's spirits came crashing down all over again. It couldn't be her – if she could not speak, she could not sing…and if she could not sing, it couldn't be her. He would help the girl of course – it looked like she'd been through quite an ordeal – but she was not the one. No. Not without that voice.
Now, only a few weeks later, having invited the poor orphan to his new palace to be cared for and pampered by his staff of well-intentioned chinwags, Eric was even more bewildered than ever. He hadn't learned much about the auburn-haired mute – nothing beyond her name, which the winds themselves seemed to have whispered to him in a dream. But she was utterly fascinated with the world – with the marketplace, with the commoners, the mechanics of a carriage wheel, the charm of a puppet show. At Grimsby's urging, Eric had taken her on a tour today – one he himself desperately needed if he was to truly get to know his new province. They'd packed a picnic and Ariel stared, mesmerized by the three-pronged fork with which his manservant served a selection of Louie's finest meats and cheeses. How refreshing it was to see a young woman so full of life to the point of being fascinated with every blade of grass – how enchanting she was…how beautiful. So beautiful, it almost made him forget…almost. But Ariel was not…her.
"You think it's possible Grim?" Eric asked his most trusted advisor – the only member of his original staff from Kincanaan that he'd insisted on bringing to Lochmere.
"What's that, Your Highness?" Grimsby asked as he lit his pipe after dinner that night in the atrium.
Eric rolled his eyes. "I told you not to call me that."
Grimsby shot him a grin. "You may as well get used to it, Highness. Sooner or later you must allow your guard to start addressing you properly."
"Don't change the subject."
Grimsby started to object, then let out a resigned sigh. "Do I think what is possible, Eric?"
Eric paused, staring out the large, darkened panes of glass which overlooked the second-story veranda. Over the lower balcony was the most beautiful view of the seaside – a view at this moment being enjoyed by Ariel. She'd taken to spending her evenings on the veranda, as this lower balcony was connected to the guest house…and he'd taken to watching her. "To…be in—" he stopped himself— "to be interested…in two women at once?"
Grimsby looked up from his pipe, gaping. The old man was unaccustomed to his master speaking so openly about his feelings – he'd guessed of course that Eric had developed an attachment to the young mute girl – a vast improvement over the young prince's last obsession. But the fact that he'd alluded to two people implied that he still hadn't let go of this fantasy rescuer of his, and Grimsby worried that the new prince never would. "Well," he began carefully as he rose from the comfortable easy chair he'd settled into by the fire. "I suppose so," he said finally. He watched as Eric's face twisted in anguish, the equivocating response clearly not helpful. Grimsby sighed as he reached the wall of windowpanes, getting a glimpse of the prince's view. "Though Eric, if I may say," he dared to go on, looking out at the lovely girl standing there in the wind, the breeze catching at the bottom of her teal cloak, her red hair shimmering in the moonlight. "Far better than any dream girl—" he continued. Eric flinched at the word 'dream'– "is one of flesh and blood. One warm, and caring…and right before your eyes." He trailed off, withdrawing from the window to allow his master's reflection, hoping it might finally be enough to convince the prince to let go of the 'mystery maiden with a voice like a bell' and take a chance on the young woman so clearly and hopelessly in love with him.
Eric had come to expect Grim's not-so-subtle attempts to encourage the friendship that had blossomed between him and Ariel – and of course, who could blame the old bean-pole? For weeks the man had watched his ward pine after a woman no one else was sure existed. Eric sighed, turning to reply to his advisor only to find that the old man had removed himself from the room entirely. Typical, he thought, as Grimsby's sing-songy hint about Ariel rang in his ear, drawing him back to the window. But when his eyes fell again on the balcony, he jolted –Ariel was gone.
Where had she got to? Surely he hadn't missed her retreating to the guest house, for he would have noticed, at the very least, the cottage light spilling out onto the veranda if she'd gone back inside. Seized by a desire not to lose sight of her, Eric pushed open the large glass doors onto the upper balcony and hurried to the covered stairway that connected the two. The crashing of the waves against Lochmere's seaside intensified as he headed down and closer to the shore. Quickly, he reached the spot on the lower balcony where he'd last seen Ariel, then froze. There she was, walking along a long stretch of shale jutting up from the sand and winding all the way toward the docks. How had she gotten down there so fast?! He stood rooted to the veranda, mesmerized by her form as he watched the girl soaking in the soft summer night breeze from the distant waves. And though he knew it to be a fruitless endeavor, though he knew this was not the girl with the mystifying voice, Prince Eric also somehow knew that if he didn't follow her now, he'd regret it for the rest of his life.
…
Before the sun sets on the last day of the third week – that had been Ursula's deal. Three weeks. Two and a half weeks ago, that had seemed like plenty of time. And when she'd been discovered by Eric himself only hours after she'd be hurled up to the surface, her new waterless lungs straining for air, she couldn't believe her good fortune. She had figured it would take at least the first week to find the handsome human whose song had stolen her heart, and here he'd come upon her on the very first day, offering shelter, food…friendship.
But friendship wasn't enough. True love's kiss – that was the rest of the deal. Only true love's kiss would make the spell permanent and keep her from reverting back into a mermaid. And if she failed…Ariel would belong to the underworld. She would become one of the sea witch's many minions. She would work for Ursula. Ariel couldn't imagine a fate worse than that: to be working for Ursula, to do her bidding, to betray her people. Of course, neither could she imagine any longer a world without Eric – the only man who would ever be able to complete her.
Oh if only her father had listened to her! If only she'd been permitted to follow her heart the way the rest of her sisters had – to pursue the one who knew her song. But the sea king had made himself clear; destroying her trove of human artifacts was certainly proof enough of his unyielding obstinacy. Triton's denial had forced her hand – she'd had no choice but to seek out the sea witch. And in doing so, she'd paid an unthinkable price.
Why even as she was making the deal, she knew it was a bad idea: trading her voice for legs; giving up the very instrument that would so easily bind her love to Eric's in exchange for the chance to be part of his world. At the time, she'd been so desperate and heartsick, she'd convinced herself that even without her singing, he would still recognize her, would sense in his heart what was so plainly written on her face, that she was the one he'd been looking for. Now of course, nearly three fateful weeks later, she'd fully realized the artifice of Ursula's deal-making. Neptune's beard! She'd made it sound so easy: "Men don't like a lot of blabber anyway!" the sea witch had cackled even as Ariel was signing away her soul.
Still, she was this 'dream girl' as the old one often jested. She knew Eric had been looking for her. Just because she'd traded her voice for legs didn't mean she'd lost her hearing. And what she heard around and about the town was deafening: the stories, the gossip – all about Eric and his mystery rescuer. Ariel's hand-maiden, Betsy, who was being courted by one of Eric's guards, prattled insufferably about how her young beau had spent weeks galloping across the countryside with the new prince, looking for a woman who 'didn't exist'. If she could only show him somehow, explain to him the deal she'd made. She'd tried gestures, mimicking their strange form of written language, but couldn't quite master the syntax. Why did humans have such trouble seeing what was before their very eyes?! Three days left and she was no further along with—
"Ariel?"
The girl froze, her eyes still resting upon the rippling waves as the moonbeams danced along the horizon. She sucked in a breath and turned. There he was. Just as handsome as the day she'd set eyes on him, his mouth curling into a soft grin.
"I see you've found one of my favorite spots," he offered as he gestured toward the sea. She nodded, for it was all she could do. He took a whiff of the sea air and let out a sigh, one that sounded far more calm and content than he actually felt, being this close to her. He pressed his hand on the shale precipice, hoping he was striking some sort of casual pose regardless of his anxiety. "It's awfully peaceful here," he added.
At this, Ariel couldn't help but snort. Peaceful. Precisely what did humans find to be so 'peaceful' about the sea? Underneath, the waves were teaming with life.
"What?" Eric started at her reaction.
Ariel shrunk back, feeling sheepish. Had she snorted that loudly? Did he think she was laughing at him? She was mortified, but helpless to explain. She opened her mouth, furious that no sound would come out, then gestured helplessly at the sea, rapidly mimicking a swim stroke as if to suggest all the fury and excitement of the waters.
"Oh," Eric bit his lip, trying to catch her meaning. "Yes, I suppose it's not exactly calm right now," he said at last with a chuckle.
Ariel blew out a sigh in relief, her heart tumbling in summersaults. He understood her! He was doing that a lot lately – sensing what she must mean despite her horrendously sloppy and awkward game of gestures. She nodded fiercely, a wide grin splitting across her face.
"Still," he continued, shoving his hands in his pockets and forcing himself to look back at the ocean, "can't really argue with that salty sea air. One of the most…erm, calming…smells." Eric turned away and cringed. Calming smells? What was he talking about?! How could a girl with no voice leave him tripping all over his words? He turned back to her and froze. Her eyes. Those cerulean eyes of hers boring so deeply into his own. "Did you, um," he gulped eventually, "did you enjoy the…the tour today?"
Ariel couldn't stand it. Surely he must know the answer to that question! And why must he waste time making conversation when he knew it was something she couldn't return?! Why must he waste time in general? Time was precisely what she didn't have!
Struck with a surge of urgency, Ariel lunged forward, so suddenly that Eric stumbled back into the shale wall, the loose lapels of his tunic falling open as he spluttered, "Whoa, hey, um…what're you—"
Ariel had observed enough of human customs to know that this precarious position wasn't exactly, well, couth: a young maid backing her prince up to a wall, practically shoving him against the long, winding beach crag. But she was nearly out of options, and he was too stunned to resist her as she gripped the folds of his lapels and leaned forward.
"A-a-ariel?" Eric stammered, wondering what the hell was going on while at the same time longing for what she'd so boldly initiated. She was so close now, inches away and he could almost taste the soft brush of her lips when suddenly, she stopped.
Ariel gasped as she drew back and looked down. As she'd reached to pull him close, her hand had grazed over a thin gold chain looped around his neck. Endless curiosity forever her most frustrating flaw, she followed the chain down to the precious item hanging from it.
"Wh-what?" Eric gulped, following her gaze then lifting the trinket from beneath his tunic. "This?" he held it up and watched in awe as her eyes followed it with intense fascination, almost reverence. "It's um…it's a kind of…flute," he explained, clearing the massive frog in his throat.
Flute, Ariel thought. Her father's manic voice filled her head: "It seems the new prince of Lochmere has laid claim to a sacred artifact that most certainly does not belong to him. The Ocarina of Waves." In the weeks she'd spent with the prince of Lochmere, she'd only ever seen him with the instrument once, and at the time she was too far away to hear it. She had no idea he kept it with him always. Would he have any clue? Would he ever have any idea what powerful transformation Amphitrite's relic had wrought on her soul?
"You…you like it?" Eric asked lamely. Of course she liked it. She seemed utterly enthralled. "It was a…a gift. From my mother. She called it an ocarina," he explained, handling the instrument gently. She lifted her gaze to his, her eyes entranced, pleading with him. "Would you," he rasped, her face still only inches from his, "would you like to…hear it?"
Ariel's breath hitched as she nodded, though she was almost afraid to hear it again, to hear what had driven her all this way to find him, to trade away her entire world. Suddenly an icy fear gripped her heart: what if it wasn't the same? What if the song…wasn't hers? What if she'd imagined the whole—
Eric started to play, hesitantly at first, his eyes still on her as his fingers played across the holes of the flute. As the melody grew her eyes fell closed and she started to sway with the music. Eric's heart swelled. He'd never played for anyone before; he could hardly believe he was playing for her now except…there was no way he could refuse her. His confidence grew as she started to move with the melody, her feet dancing softly along the sand as he continued to play the song he'd known since he was a child – a silly tune, really – something he'd made up as a kid and yet…its effect on her…
The song filled her soul just the way she'd remembered, so hauntingly familiar. She so longed to sing it with him, to reveal to him its melody that she'd sung on the beach – the day she rescued him; Goddess that seemed ages ago now. She opened her mouth, futilely, but of course no sound came out. So she continued to sway, to move lightly on her feet, stepping rhythmically to the harmony she knew so well.
Eric continued to play as he watched her – her lithe, breathless movement becoming a frenzied dance as the very waves seemed to join in his silly symphony. It was damnedest thing really – for though he'd never played for a true audience, and certainly not this song, she seemed…she seemed to know it. She stepped in perfect rhythm; she anticipated notes before he played them; she danced and reeled and twirled and waltzed along the shoreline, carrying them both closer and closer to the waves. With every step she made, his soul spun further into a tempestuous fury until finally, Eric couldn't take it anymore. He ceased playing, dropped the ocarina back around his neck and seized her hand, pulling her against his chest before he regained his sense. "Ariel," he rasped again, but this time he was less unsure, less nervous. He knew she wouldn't reply, she couldn't. And after all, wasn't this what she'd wanted in the first place? She stared longingly into his eyes. He cupped her cheek and she let him. He whispered her name once more before slowly dipping his head down to hers, and then—
CRACK! A flash of red and yellow light sparked just off shore followed by the high-pitched screaming of a fisherman launched overboard. Both Ariel and Eric jerked out of their trance and watched in horror as the sea started swallowing up a small fishing boat. Without a word, Eric bolted out to the dock while Ariel trailed close behind, her legs suddenly wobbly again and unsure on the shore as it turned from sand to rocks. Unable to help cursing the unfortunate timing of the incident, she watched as her prince tore off his outer tunic and boots, preparing to plunge into the sea to help the stranded seaman. Ariel might have joined in and helped if she could ever figure out how in the world to get her new legs to do what her fin did so naturally. Instead, she moved to a portion of the dock where lay a few flotation devices. She was about to grab one when she spotted something a good ways beyond the overturned boat: two pairs of sickening yellow eyes smiling at her from beneath the waves before turning to each other with congratulatory nods. Of course, she thought, her insides filling with dread. Flotsam and Jetsam – Ursula's right hand mermen – this, the man in his boat…had been no accident. And now Ariel was surer than ever. No matter how close she got, she would fail. She would lose Eric and be forever lost to the sea…
'Marina Andersen' withdrew her hands from the odd storybook and stepped away from its entrancing pages. Snow, who had been standing close by as the woman quietly poured over this particular chapter, held her breath in anticipation of her reaction to the book they now were sure had been written by one of their world's most powerful sorceresses. Ariel looked – well – flabbergasted, the generally expected reaction to the book's contents by those still asleep in the curse. But Snow was at least hopeful with the curse continuing to weaken that the little mermaid might more readily believe. She'd certainly recalled something back at the bar when she'd touched the seashell, and though 'Marina' staunchly refused now to even touch the thing, Snow just couldn't believe a smart young woman would ignore such blatant evidence.
She was wrong. Marina was still inching further and further away from them all. "That's…that's just…insane," she remarked, unable to purge the words and illustrations from her mind. "Nuts, I mean…I mean…mermaids!"
"Ariel, just try to think—" Jasmine pleaded, trying to mask her annoyance.
"No!" she fought. "Th-there's nothing to think about. And don't call me that—
"But that's your name—"
"No it's not, and this," she stalked back to the book and flipped it forward one page to reveal a haunting depiction of Prince Eric playing his flute for the bewitching Ariel. "Even if I believed it, this man," Marina pointed at the oil canvas of the man in question, "is Charlie Fisher. A dock worker who occasionally does some odd jobs for Ugly Duckling." She flipped back a few pages and steadfastly ignored the ache in her stomach as her eyes fell on an earlier illustration depicting the mermaid Ariel, stretched beside her beloved on the seashore, singing to an enthralled, albeit nearly drowned, Prince Eric. "He's no prince, and he's certainly no musician. In fact, he's in and out of the children's ward at the hospital all the time teaching the nurses sign language…because he's deaf!"
"We know," said Jasmine, shaking her head at Snow. "Believe me, we know it's not…ideal—"
"Ideal?" Marina almost laughed. "You're telling me I'm the Little Mermaid and—"
"You don't actually like being called that," Snow interjected. Jasmine glared at her. "What? She doesn't!" Snow mumbled.
"Whatever," Marina shook her head but pressed on, jamming her finger against the page, "this clearly shows that um, hearing is kinda necessary for your…whatever you said you needed, your happy ending. And Charlie? He can't even—"
"Your happy ending, Marina," came Ella's quiet, soothing voice. She'd been, until this point, allowing Snow and Jasmine to take point on the unfathomable task of convincing the young lounge singer she'd not only once been a princess, but a mermaid. They were failing of course, miserably. Since arriving back at the cottage after locking an unconscious Ursula and her henchmen in the Ugly Duckling cellar, Marina had gotten over (or at least buried) the initial shock of having almost been kidnapped by her former employer and had devolved into a protective world of denial. The golden seashell Snow had retrieved also seemed to have lost its effect, having prompted only the one vision back at the bar which Ariel had by now convinced herself she'd hallucinated. After all, Regina had hypnotically suggested through her multi-projection mirror-cam that those for whom the queen's ultimatum was not intended convince themselves it was all a dream. The mermaid seemed to have done just that with both the mirror message and the vision, and she would not even think of touching the shell again.
Ella rose from where she was seated on the edge of Thomas's bed, her own prince still sound asleep and recovering from the events of the day. On her shoulder, she cradled Alexandra and caught the proud eye of her father-in-law watching her from the corner as she spoke. "Tell me Marina," she said softly, stepping over to the little mermaid. "Do you know…Charlie Fisher well?"
"Ella—" Jasmine huffed, impatiently. She was tired of walking on eggshells, using fabricated Storybrooke names for women who were far stronger than this damned curse was allowing them to be. After all, she knew Ariel from the old world. She'd met both her and Eric a few weeks before her official coronation, saw the woman assist her husband in brokering trade agreements between Braemar and Agrabah like a professional diplomat. And now she was…what? Some spineless lounge singer? Jasmine wanted to punch something!
But Snow shook her head and silenced the would-be-sultana before Jasmine had time to voice her frustration. Ella handed off her sleeping girl, and Snow gladly scooped the child into her arms as she watched Ella work her own bit of magic. "Please," she continued. "I'm just curious."
"N-no," Marina stammered. "Not well. Not—" she bit her lip. "Not at all, really—"
"But you know his full name. You know he's deaf," she said. It wasn't a question.
"Everyone knows he's deaf—" Marina scoffed.
"Does everyone know he works with kids in the children ward?" Ella replied, unfaltering. "Does everyone know he teaches sign language to nurses?"
Marina gulped. "I…I don't know," she muttered, taken aback by the girl's muted approach.
"But you do," Ella said, placing her hand on Ariel's shoulder, smiling as she didn't pull away. "You probably know all about him, Marina, or at least more than you would normally bother to learn about the man who empties the trash at your club."
Marina looked away, folding her arms and trying to roll her eyes yet only managing to glance back to the storybook.
"Because somehow," Ella went on, "and you'll never be able to explain it, you feel like Charlie…is supposed to be part of your life."
At that, Ariel did jerk away, but she didn't go far. "That's ridiculous."
"Probably," Ella sighed, "but no less true."
"Why would I feel that way? He…he's—"
"If there's one thing about life here in Storybrooke you must do, Marina," the blonde princess pressed on as she rounded the bed, "it's trust your instincts. Trust in what feels right." Glancing down at her sleeping prince, Ella smiled, remembering all over again how brilliant he'd been when this whole thing started. After all, it was Thomas she was now channeling: he'd convinced 'Ashley' of 'Sean's' love long before he'd even attempted to explain the curse or Seven Gales. "What we're telling you is almost impossible to swallow, we know that," she said, glancing over at Snow. "So don't even try. Forget what this book says about Eric," she gestured to its pages that, despite her resistance, Ariel kept eyeing, "Trust instead in what you already know to be true about Charlie."
"And that's what exactly?" Marina huffed, though the more she listened, the less she could ignore of what she sensed was true. Ashley looked about to respond when her young man began to stir. Instantly she was at his side, perching on the edge of his bed and grasping for his hand. The older gentleman moved too, practically leaping from his chair as he too joined his son's side.
"That's he's important," Snow took over, throwing an appreciative glance at the young princess who never ceased to amaze her. "That he means something to you. And that he's in trouble, Marina…and needs your help."
Marina couldn't help but keep watching as Sean Herman – or the one they were all calling Thomas – groggily coughed his way back to consciousness. Something truly horrific must have happened to have rendered this young man semi-conscious on a used mattress several hundred feet below the surface of a town teaming with hysteria. Marina watched as Ashley gently swept some of his wavy brown hair from his forehead; 'twas an act so sweet and simple, but the gesture left an ache in her heart that sparked a sudden image in her mind's eye – a vision of herself. She glanced again at the open pages of the book and looked more closely at the picture of 'Ariel' singing alongside a recovering 'Eric.' And last, in the illustration, she saw herself…sweeping a lock of hair from Charlie Fisher's forehead.
Marina took a deep breath and raised her gaze to an expectant Snow and Jasmine. "Ok," she sighed at last. "So how do we help him?"
…
***First of all, thank you so much for your patience and your willingness to stick with this story even though it appeared for a long while that I had abandoned it. I will NEVER abandon this story. At the risk of sounding like J.K. Rowling, I have the ending already written and it's a conclusion that I've had in mind since James's very first confrontation with Rumpelstiltskin. That being said, some health problems along with typical busyness at school prevents me from writing as often as I'd like. In addition, I spent a good deal of the summer writing the script of a play I'm planning to produce soon so my creative energies have been a little spent of late. Hopefully these next few chapters will make up for it. Again, I know it's short but given how long it was going to be, this might be better. The very next chapter will start with Emma and her party arriving at the hospital with a much-awaited meeting to be had with Maleficent.
This chapter marks the last of the major Fairytale flashbacks. I felt I couldn't jip Ariel and Eric out of some development since they are the least developed of the guardians in Storybrooke and I fear I won't really have much time or attention to pay them once Emma figures out how to wake them since, then, all guardians will be awake and Regina will be…well…miffed. Besides, I have a certain soft spot for Eric since, until Tangled, he was always my favorite of the Disney heroes.
Again, thank you for not giving up! Hope you enjoyed the update and stay tuned!***